Man up Friday

The back's a soupçon better today, which is just as well because I was in danger of getting downhearted by it all.  Well, I mean to say, it's day two ferrchrissakes.  The best years of my life are being eaten up by this boring condition.

Still, onwards and upwards.  It's off to Kings Cross straight from the office this evening for the two-hour journey to York.  I've procured a massive picnic to see us right en route.  Better that than worrying about being stranded by "a jumper" outside Hitchin.  That's happened before.  And when it does, market forces turn all the travellers against one another.  

Last time it happened, some old hands dashed-off and emptied the buffet car of booze before the engine had even struck the poor unfortunate in question.  The tell-tale urgent braking was enough to alert them to the imminent impact.  It was ten minutes before I realised something was seriously "up".  I trotted off to the buffet car for a soothing 12 cans of bitter, but the cupboard was bare.  A very dark and introspective two hours followed, which I'm sure would have been grist to the mill for Arthur Miller, but which for me was nothing more than a prolonged opportunity to confront my sober unconscious mind.  I did not like what I saw that night, friends.  No, I did not.

Anyway, no danger of that tonight.  We've half a case of Tattinger each if needs must.

Can I speak to your back please? 'Fraid not - He's out.

I somehow put my back out last evening.  This is a depressing and unhelpful development at the best of times, but when you've a long train trip in the diary in a day of two, as I have, it's doubly unwelcome.  It also happened in the most innocuous of circs.

I was on the phone to my sister for 10 minutes or so, and when I walked away from the wretched apparatus, I could distinctly feel a twinge.  This escalated over the coming hours.  And this morning, it was properly sore.  I spend all my waking hours when not shackled to the desk at work, cycling and doing yoga.  How is it then that answering the land-line can upset my lumbar spine?  It's not right.

It's easy to get psychotic - well it is for me at least - when one's back plays up.  It's such a debilitating pain.  Every simple action is turned into a test of will and physical endurance.  The ironic thing is that when I'm being active and physical, it's fine.  It's only when I sit that it starts to ache.  Unfortunately, sitting is what I do for a living, so the days are long and arduous - my two least favourite adjectives.  Well, 'long' has its moments, but you see what I mean.

So the plan tonight is to scoot straight home, carbo-load on wine and then see out the evening in palliative yoga poses.  I wonder what Axl Rose is up to tonight.  No doubt his back will be aching in the morning too.  The rotter.  Anyway, I digress.

Essence and Extension

I had to get the tube to work today, which for a jobbing cyclist like me is a nightmare.  Also, it's July; the sun is shining and the cotton is high, instead of being out there enjoying it, I was stuck in a giant tumble dryer with the vulgar mob.  And they are vulgar, believe me.  The reason for the unwelcome return to London's expensive and shambolic transport system is that one of my hamstrings is playing-up.  It's not sore exactly, just not right, and I don't want to do any damage, so I'm waiting to see my physio.

I have a difficult relationship with health care professionals.  I love them but at the same time hate myself for being so needy.  It's all take-take from me.  I don't know what my physio gets out of it, frankly, apart from £90 an hour (I suppose one could rent a very attractive Russian prostitute for that kind of money, but BUPA would probably baulk at that).  My physio is big on taking responsibility for one's pain management.  I had a problem with my neck some years ago; it was absolutely excruciating.  I mean this was real "can I go on?" agony.  It was debilitating too.  Anyway, he treated me and the symptoms died down, but afterwards he gave me some exercises that were designed expressly to anger the errant neck vertebra.  The rationale for this is that pain has two elements: the electrical signal, about which you can do nothing, and the brain's reaction to that signal, about which you have absolute control.  So basically I was prodding the sore nerve ending with a physio stick until it realised that Mr Brain was going to ignore it.

It was incredibly liberating, this process.  I felt a degree of control I'd never previously thought possible.  For a few months I was master of my limbs and trunk.  Unfortunately, real life creeps back up and gives one a drubbing, just to restore balance.  Just as well I suppose, otherwise I might have ended-up like one of the halfwits who thinks himself utterly invulnerable and spends his weekends base-jumping when he could be drinking freezing cold sherry with his darling wife.

No pain - yes please.